


Once and Future

by nirejseki



Category: Arthurian Mythology, DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: When Mick first found out, he spent one minute thinking they were pulling one over on him, one minute being shocked, one minute getting angry, one minute realizing it was pointless, and about five solid minutes panicking hysterically. He was too busy having these reactions at the time to really notice, but it occurs to him after he’s finally calmed down that this is perhaps not the customary response to the revelation that you might be the secret heir to the throne and that’s probably why everyone is looking at him so weirdly.





	1. Chapter 1

When Mick first found out, he spent one minute thinking they were pulling one over on him, one minute being shocked, one minute getting angry, one minute realizing it was pointless, and about five solid minutes panicking hysterically. 

He was too busy having these reactions at the time to really notice, but it occurs to him after he’s finally calmed down that this is perhaps not the customary response to the revelation that you might be the _secret heir to the throne_ and that’s probably why everyone is looking at him so weirdly.

In fairness, though, of all of that he only regrets that one minute being angry, because sure, his mom may have brought all this shit down on Mick’s head because she apparently couldn’t resist sleeping with their notoriously promiscuous and yet tragically (mostly) infertile king, but she’s dead so it’s kind of pointless being pissed at her now.

“Are you quite all right?” the old guy from the court says warily.

“I’m the first person who’s literally going to die from being a bastard,” Mick says.

Okay, maybe he’s not totally done with the hysterics.

“You’re not going to die,” the guy says, sounding confused. “Was I unclear? You are the true-born heir to – ”

“Going to _die_.”

“No, no,” the guy says soothingly, looking vaguely like he thinks Mick's gone round the bend. “You’re going to be a _prince_.”

“That’s what I _mean_ ,” Mick says. “I’m serving as a squire at this stupid fucking tournament because I got arrested for _arson_ and this seemed better than going back to prison. So I took a shortcut through the goddamn churchyard and grabbed the sword out of some rock –”

“The sword in the _stone_ –”

“Stone, rock, _whatever_. It doesn’t matter. Listen, putting aside the fact that I thought yanking an over-long sliver of steel out of a headstone instead of breaking into the armory would get me into _less_ trouble, you can’t honestly tell me that I’m what you think of as good material for ruling a country. That means that I’m going to be shit at it, and then people will get pissed off because I’m shit at it, and then there’ll be a revolution and then I’m _going to die_.”

The people from court are silent for a long moment.

“Well,” the hard-faced woman in the back says. “At least he has some grasp of politics.”

\--------------------

Actually, it turned out Mick and Queen Regnant Gwen, the woman with the snark and the sense of perspective, got on pretty decent, all things considered (especially the old king's two-timing of her that resulted in Mick in the first place). Gwen – Mick didn’t believe in names longer than four letters, personally, no matter how many times the courtiers tried to get him to call her Guinevere – was a balls-busting, bad-ass bitch, which Mick appreciated in person. 

Gwen, in turn, appreciated Mick's blunt way of expressing himself, as long as it wasn't in public and embarrassing to anyone. 

Didn't mean she showed him any mercy when it came to taking stupid lessons about deportment and politics. Best she did was let him hide in her office sometimes when it got unbearable.

"Tell me, why Mick?" she asks, idly turning a page on her desk, scribbling down a notation.

"How's that?" he asks, slouching behind her desk, knees pulled up. He didn't want to be spotted if Miss Kay poked her in Gwen's office looking for him to come back to yet another practice dinner session - with no food, either!

"Why did you choose to be called 'Mick'?" Gwen says. "It's hardly the obvious shortening for Mordred."

Mick snorts. "Yeah, sure," he says. "I'd like to see you try to grow up with something as screwy as _Mordred_ and not get beaten up by every group of kids that wanders by. Mick's decent enough for me, thanks. Most people think it's short for something normal."

"Not interested in standing out?"

"Fuck no," Mick says. "More trouble than it's worth."

"That's not much like your father - or your mother."

"Fuck 'em both," Mick says glumly. 

"You're sure your mother never mentioned..?" 

"Not a word. Didn't even know she'd schtupped the king."

Gwen makes a strangled sound.

Mick squints up at her.

"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "Just appreciating good old fashioned provincial honesty."

Gwen said weird stuff like that sometimes.

"Still, it did always strike me as strange that you lived out in that farm. It struck me as a strange place for a woman like your mother."

Mick snorts. "So, you're saying you met her."

"A few times," Gwen says.

"Your old man was a real piece," Mick observes.

Gwen snorts, not disagreeing. "Don't dodge the question."

Mick shrugs. "You talk like she ever talked to me about anything. About anything. Ever."

"She didn't discuss the king with you?"

"Nah, she didn't think much of kids; said she'd bother with me when I got a bit older and had a brain. I mostly raised myself, with some help from the workhands on the farm and the cook."

"Morgan was always more concerned with politics than family affairs," Gwen says. "A trait we share, to my regret. Thus my surprise at her living out in a farm..."

"You're like a pig after a truffle, aren't you?" Mick says admiringly.

"Most people go with the bloodhound metaphor," Gwen says, her lips twitching. 

"Those people clearly never met a pig on a mission. Dogs got nothing next to them. Anyways, it was some business with her sister, I think," Mick says. "Mom couldn't stand her, and I think it was mutual, but she said she'd serve out the terms of her, uh, exile with grace. She was always full of high drama like that; how was I to know she was talking straight that one time? She once said the chicken coop was plotting her demise!"

Gwen abruptly coughs into her hand.

"You okay?" Mick asks, alarmed. 

"Your concern for my health is admirable, but unnecessary," Gwen says, though her voice is still a bit twisted up like she's having trouble breathing. 

"Yeah, well, if you kick it, I'd have nowhere to hide from Miss Kay from."

"I will endeavor not to, ah, 'kick it', as you put it."

"Much obliged," Mick says sincerely.

"That being said, you _will_ be expected to start taking on official duties once the official period of mourning is over, so you can't avoid Miss Kay forever."

Mick grumbles.

Gwen turns to him, leaning down and pushing up his chin until he's looking at her straight in the eye. "Listen, Mick. The first few years after the mourning period ends is something of a test period. The Pendragon line is a strong one, well-respected, but the lords and peers are also strong; they'll be testing your quality. And if you fail to live up to their expectations - and don't worry, they're already quite low, given your parentage and your, ah, accent - but if you fail even that, they will feel duty bound to remove you from the throne. _Permanently_. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mick says. "Me being around but not being king could start a civil war, being of how fond the common folk were of the old king and all that."

Gwen's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Yes, indeed," she says. "That's - remarkably apt, if a slightly crude way of putting it."

"I think I've got a way to handle the politics stuff now, Gwen," Mick says confidently. "Don't you worry."

"You know, I wasn't worried before, but now I'm starting to," Gwen says dryly. "Are you breaking any laws?"

"No," Mick says. "But I put the fear of god into the head butler."

"The _steward_? Whatever for?"

"He runs the downstairs."

"So?"

"It was very important," Mick says. "Essential to my survival, in fact."

"Very well," Gwen says, looking slightly mystified. "Remember you have to go to the courts of justice tomorrow, and I want write-ups of how you would dispose of the cases in my hand in the evening."

"No problem." 

"And you still need to go to deportment class."

"Awww, but _Gwen_ -"

"No buts, Mick," Gwen says firmly. "You can solve the issue of solving complex political problems however you like - I'm sure I don't want to know - but I saw you eat at breakfast and that is definitely _not_ acceptable."

Mick sighs. "Things weren't this convoluted in prison," he says mournfully.

Gwen shakes her head in amusement.

"Actually," she says thoughtfully a minute later. "I wanted to ask, are the Beltane celebrations going to be an issue for you?"

"Why would it be a problem?" Mick asks, puzzled.

"Well, I'm not sure how they celebrated it out where you lived -"

"No kids allowed," Mick volunteers. "Though babies sometimes get to go."

"Hmh, interesting. Well, here we celebrate with a giant bonfire. I don't want to bring up any bad memories - what with your family and all."

Mick's eyes glaze over a little. "Bonfire?" he says. "How big?"

"Oh, very large - ten feet at the very least."

Mick gave a little sigh as he imagined it: the flames flickering in the wind, the smell of ash, the crackling kindling - the sheer glory of the release of tension - the beautiful relief –

"I see we might have a problem, albeit not the one I expected," Gwen says dryly. "Mick, is your arson conviction by any chance tied to _pyromania_?"

Mick looks guiltily up at her. "...maybe?" he hazards. "I just like setting 'em; always have, and it just got worse after the one with my family."

"Did you set that one?" 

Mick winces; Gwen was like the sword he'd yanked out of the rock - she never missed stabbing right to the heart of the issue. 

"I don't know," he confesses. "I went down to Mom's lab to look at the fire-jars she had there, and I...I don't really remember much else. I don't think I touched anything, almost like the jars jumped up and smashed themselves together, but somehow the fire got started and I tried to run, but then I just couldn't tear my eyes away." Mick's voice goes quiet. "It was so beautiful. I wanted to touch it. I wanted - oh, I wanted -" He shudders. "But then they all burned because I didn't go warn them. So in the end it's my fault anyway."

"I don't think it is," Gwen says. "You were a child, there was an earthquake, your mother had enemies more powerful than you know, and you were - _are_ \- ill with something that none of us entirely understand. You needn't worry about burning this old shack," she adds. "We're built from stone, though the tapestries might catch. But if you'd like to have a fire pit or help with the demolition crews in your spare time -"

"Oh, yes, please!"

"Then I suggest you go to your deportment class."

"Aww, _Gwen_!"

\-----------------------------------

Mick takes the scrolls in his hands. "I think I'll retire to consider these," he says, glaring at the courtiers and daring anyone to disagree. "Decisions will be made in the morning, unless there's something immediately urgent - and use _my_ definition of that, not yours."

There were murmurings, but no one spoke.

Mick marches out of the room and back to his bedroom, where he drops them all on the table and then collapses face-first into the bed.

"It's like they think of new problems just to pester you," his valet drawls from the corner of the room.

"I really think they do," Mick says to the duvet, before rolling over to regard Len with a grin. "Lucky for them all, I have you to do my thinking for me."

Len snorts. "I'm just a common born thief," he reminds Mick. "You, however, are the true-born heir of our most beloved King Arthur, marked by God, etc. etc."

"Yup," Mick says. "And God in his mercy looked down and noticed my lack of brains, and so he sent me you. Problem solved."

"It's solved up until your trial period ends," Len says. "Then you'll have another problem."

"How's that? I'm not letting you get away with not doing my homework after you've been doing it so well for so long."

"You might not have a choice," Len says. "Valet to the Crown heir is a pretty plum position; only reason some hoity toity noble hasn't insisted I be tossed out on my ear yet is 'cause you're still only the _presumptive_ heir, and no one wants to ally with you till they know you're gonna be the _real_ heir. Plus Guinevere has been playing close to her chest how she thinks about you, and no one wants to piss off the Queen Regnant, given that she holds all the threads of power in her iron fist ever since the old King died."

"Gwen likes me just fine," Mick argues, but sighs. "I started getting approached by people wanting to give me things, just like you said I would."

"That's a good sign," Len assures him. "No faster way of reading the tea leaves than to see which way the toadies lean. Means they're getting close to confirming you."

"You sure I can't just declare a republic tomorrow?" Mick asks.

"You gotta build up to it or people will panic," Len says comfortably. "Now up, let me get you out of those robes before you strangle yourself."

Mick lets Len manhandle him out of his court wear. Making it Len’s official job to remove Mick's clothing every day is easily his favorite part of becoming the prince.

Speaking of which –

"I was thinking of ways we might deal with that whole fancy valet problem," Mick says, dropping back onto the bed and grabbing Len by the waist to reel him in after. 

Len protests halfheartedly, shaking his head and saying, "Mick, I need to read the papers if you want me to make a decision on them -"

"You can do it in the morning. I want you here, tonight."

"What'd you do if you hadn't met me in that reformatory?" Len says with a laugh.

"Hey, I saved your life," Mick says. "Now it's your turn to save mine."

"Somehow, I didn't expect all the paperwork that seems to be involved. How were you thinking of explaining me once you have a proper valet? And you'll have to give in and pick one of them eventually; it's only good politics."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Don't you 'yeah, yeah' me. It's _important_."

"Sure, Lenny. Wanna hear my plan?"

"Sure," Len says indulgently, letting Mick snuggle in and press his head against Len's shoulder. Mick knew that Len wasn't just saying it, too; he always listened to Mick like Mick was the smart one of the two of them. "Let's hear it. What role do you want me to play? Stableboy? Floor-sweeper? Bath-runner? I could probably get away with page for a few years, then shift to some minor managerial role in the household -"

"I was thinking more along the lines of consort, myself," Mick says, and starts counting.

Len is speechless for nearly forty seconds, a new record.

Then he says, "You're joking."

"No."

"But - you can't -"

"It's legal. Gwen checked. It'd only be a problem if you were usurping a rightful queen's place, and since I neither got one of those nor plan to _get_ one of those, no problem. The whole court thinks I’m batty anyway, but they love your economic initiatives, so they’ll be cool with it after the first shock is over."

"Your family line -"

"Yeah," Mick says, flushing a bit at the memory of a _very_ frank talk with Gwen. "That - shouldn't be an issue, if you don't mind having some threesomes, uh, witnessed."

"When you say _witnessed_ -"

"I gotta be the one in the front, if you get my drift, and they’re going to want to be there to make sure of it," Mick says. "To make sure the kid's legit and all, you know. But I'm sure we can find some ladies that'd be game to be the first lady in the court, even if they don't get to be actual queen. And once the first kid or two is born, the lady'd get a peerage of their own and freedom to shack up with whomever they like. As long as it's all clear and above-board in advance, Gwen says she thinks we can swing it." Mick licks his lips. "If you're willing to sign up to do a crap job like this for good, that is. With me."

"Of course _with you_ ," Len snaps. "You think I'd get a job working as a servant - _legitimately_ , no less! - for anyone but you?"

"So that's a yes?" Mick says hopefully.

"This is a terrible idea."

"That's definitely a yes," Mick decides, because he knows Len, and rolls Len over to kiss him.

Soon enough, Mick's coaxing out all the "yes"es he can possibly want out of Len.

With any luck, Len will be too tuckered out to get angry when Mick explains Gwen's idea of how they're going to stage Len and Mick's first official meeting and the subsequent relationship, because having him marry his valet is apparently a no-go when they could entertain the entire country with a fairytale romance. 

Turns out Len is not, in fact, too tuckered out. Instead, he uses his first meeting with Gwen face-to-face to lay out his objections with icy logic and nasty little ripostes, glowering the whole while. Luckily, because Gwen likes people who stand up to her, this means Gwen thinks he's smashingly wonderful.

(Mick agrees.)


	2. Bonus snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus snippet: in a world a few universes over

(in a world a few universes over)

"I'm running out of charge," Mick roars, swinging his gun around at the knights that were attacking them. His heat gun and Len's cold gun were the most effective weapons they had against the knights' high-tech future-armor, given that the so-called "conventional" weaponry of the era Rip had given them was doing shit.

New age of Camelot, his ass. Fuck this noise.

"We need to hold them back a little longer!" Sara called, flipping over one knight into another. "Firestorm's on his way, and Gideon's bringing our exit route right on his tail."

"Miss Lance is correct," Rip shouts. "Find another weapon for the time being, Mr. Rory!"

Mick snarls in frustration and glances at his partner, who nods. 

"Boy scout and me'll keep them off for now," Len says. "Go get something."

"Like _what_?" 

Len shrugs, icing three knights as he did. "Find a stick to bash their heads in with or something," he suggests. "Their suits block everything but that seems to knock 'em down."

"On it," Mick says, pulling up his gun and shoving it into the harness on his leg just as it spluttered and died. He vaulted over the low wall into the churchyard that these fuckers were trying to kill them for trespassing into - same yard where the asshole time traveler that they were tracking currently lay dead, his extremely dangerous time machine lying right beside him for the taking - and looked around for anything useful. It's a fucking churchyard, it's got to have trees - why does this place have no trees -

He spots a headstone with what looks like a real sword on it.

"Now we're talking!" Mick exclaims, and pelts his way toward it, even as the rest of the crew is forced to withdraw back into the yard behind him, the onslaught of the knights relentless. 

He goes over and finds that the sword is stuck inside the world's most pathetic headstone - got some words written on it, but it's not even carved nice or nothing, just a big lump of rock. Who knows? Maybe whoever's buried here was some sort of nature-lover.

Mick doesn't care as long as he can either pull the sword out or break it off at the entry point, with help from the last gasps of his gun or something. Either way, having something steel and pointy is better than a stick.

He grabs the handle and _pulls_.

It comes out like a dream, like he's pulling it from a scabbard or slicing right through butter, and his first thought is, "wow, that's some real bad construction; someone could've stolen this any time" and then there's a freaking beam of light shining down on him like a spotlight from who-know-where and some weird strains of music.

Mick stares for a minute - what sort of maniac designs an interactive pop-up book for their freaking _headstone_? - before realizing everyone's gone quiet. Really quiet, the sort that doesn't really happen in the middle of a pitched fight

He turns to the crowd of knights, expecting to have to leap into the fray, but they've all frozen still to a man staring at him, surrounding the other members of his crew, who are staring at Mick with expressions of surprise, alarm, or in Rip's case, utter horror.

"The sword in the stone!" one of the knights exclaims. "The king’s line has been restored!"

Mick blinks, looks at the sword, looks down at the rock with the words he didn't bother to read, then at the crowd of knights, which have started falling to their knees. 

"Oh _hell_ no," Mick exclaims, and starts trying to shove the stupid sword _back into_ the rock.


End file.
